From Daddy’s Arms to the Commencement Stage: Part Three – Caleb Strikes Back

[Author’s Note: My original subtitle for for this piece was going to be “Odds Are For Cowards”. My LYE (Lovely Young Editor) and my wife both decided that “Caleb Strikes Back” was more fitting. They were correct. Having said that, Caleb is living proof that odds are for cowards.]
I am sure that any of you who have read my previous writings are wondering: “I wonder what Shane is going to talk about this time”. I have previously written about my daughter, Brianna, on her high school graduation. I have also written about my daughter, Shayna, on her college graduation (which also included her getting engaged). I feel convicted to inform you that I have four children. Two of them are still in college. This means that this series of writings will most definitely continue. For this writing, I am going to orate about my youngest son, Caleb, as he has now reached the point of HIS high school graduation.
When Caleb entered our lives in 1993, he was a ball full of energy that kept his mother and me on our toes constantly. He was always running at top speed and climbing the shelves in our pantry all the way to the top. He also had the same obsession that drove most boys – FOOD. This was usually the reason Caleb climbed the pantry shelves. Caleb would stack soup cans three high. He would then stand upon the stack in order to get on top of the pantry counter. From there, the pantry shelves were an all too easy reach. The next thing you know, Caleb had a handful of whatever food we had placed on a top shelf to keep away from him. Needless to say, my wife and I frequently faced new challenges of strategic food placement.
My wife and I would face another challenge we did not anticipate. As Caleb was going through the first two years of his life, things appeared to be, for lack of a better word, awry. Caleb did not seem to be as talkative as we expected of a young child his age. Also, he also seemed to have somewhat of a distant look in his eyes. It was as if he was tuned into something completely different than what was going on in the room. His mother and I just couldn’t figure out the frequency (and he seemed unable to tell us).
Caleb then went through an array of tests. This included auditory testing as we all thought perhaps there was something wrong with his hearing. We finally got a report from a developmental test that gave Caleb the following diagnosis: Pervasive Developmental Disorder (Not Otherwise Specified). We took Caleb to the pediatrician with this diagnosis. The pediatrician who saw him was a very competent doctor with a rather thick Germanic accent. My wife asked her: “What does this diagnosis mean?” Without hesitation, the pediatrician said: “That means he’s autistic”. While I know the doctor did not intend it as such, her thick accent made her response sound extremely harsh as if my wife and I were overlooking something obvious. Simply put, it was just not a response we anticipated.
Over the months that followed, we had doctors, therapist and specialists attempting to prepare us for some other harsh possibilities: “He may never become fully verbal.”; “He might only get as high as a middle school education”; “It is possible that he may be dependent upon his parents throughout his life”. Even as I read back the aforementioned possibilities, it is hard not to be as overcome as I was when I first heard them. I know the professionals were just doing their jobs by telling us this. They would have been derelict in their professional duties if they did not tell us these things.
While I hold no grudges against these professionals, it gives me great delight to state that none of their predicted possibilities came to fruition. Over the years, I have seen Caleb exert his independence by making a simple meal for himself whenever the mood strikes him. As a matter of fact, he prepared a fine meal for the family as part of a home economics assignment. As far as verbosity, Caleb can tell you anything you need to know about Sonic the Hedgehog, Mario the Plumber, or Jack Bauer. He also converses quite well with his mother as they discuss a bill that is waiting for the governor’s signature. This bill (once signed into law) would ensure that people with autism receive insurance coverage for the screening, diagnosis and treatment of autism spectrum disorders. As far as his education goes, Caleb spent the day of this writing registering for his fall college classes (quite surpassing middle school).
To my son, Caleb, I would like to say that you have earned the accomplishment of walking across the stage and receiving your high school diploma. I hope that as you continue to grow into a young man that I will still be able to enjoy your company for a conversation, a movie, or a Rochester Redwings baseball game. I will do my best to support you during your college education. You may be our youngest child. But you are clearly no longer our baby. Just try to grin and bear it if your parents still call you that.
To the rest of the world, I present Caleb Hugh McAfee – a young gentleman and a scholar.

Confessions of a Defiant Mule

It started off as an annual trip to Georgia. The plan was to spend a week with my sister and my Dad. I had already enjoyed baseball game at Turner Field. Chipper Jones, Brian McCann, and Dan Uggla tried their noblest since Jason Heyward was on 15 day disability. Alas, they lost to the Cincinnati Reds that night. That’s OK. A bad game at Turner Field is still better than a good day at my cubicle. I even helped my brother in law renovate my Dad’s room. Between pulling up carpet and making multiple trips to the neighborhood pool, I had a lot of quality time with my brother in law that I truly enjoyed. It was a great week of diversion and respite.

Unfortunately, such trips often cause some very old addictions to resurface. I had hoped that I would be able to keep most of these addictions under control. Yet, there I was taking 48 individual wrapped 1 ounce packages and dividing them between two large zippered plastic bags so that I could take them back to New York in my luggage. I was doing fine until one of the individual packages ripped. The precious, grainy, substance spilled onto the floor. I had travelled far for this stuff. Nonetheless, I decided to take the single ounce loss and vacuumed it up. I sat there pondering on what just happened. I asked myself: “Self, how did I get to this point.”

I suppose it all started back in 1988 when I first relocated to Western New York. It was a bit of a cultural adjustment at first but I was handling it well. At least, I thought I was handling it well. I was browsing through a local grocery store and missing my home state. I figured I could fix myself a simple meal to remind myself of home and lift my mood. I went down the breakfast aisle and viewed the different items: cereal, oatmeal, farina (YUCK!). I then thought I was getting closer to what I wanted. I found a nice cylindrical canister of grits. I then looked at the boxes of instant grits and nearly wept. They had butter flavor and original and THAT’S ALL. There was no bacon bits flavor. There was no country ham flavor. To add further insult to injury, there was NOT ONE SINGLE, SOLITARY CHEESE FLAVOR. I approached the store manager about this. As soon at he heard me say grits, I had clearly lost him. I drove to store after store after store all with the same results: original and butter flavor and THAT’S ALL. I then came to the conclusion that President Grant MUST have written some law during the Reconstruction period that made such varieties of instant grits illegal north of the Mason-Dixon line.

I tried to find a way to right this grievous wrong (at least in my own home). It started with me calling my Momma and asking her to send some in a plain brown package from Georgia. I often made these requests from a payphone in case my conversations were being tapped by the FBI (Farina for Breakfast Investigators). It ultimately escalated to the point where I was even making long distance trades with friends and family members. My wife even made a deal with a sister of hers in Florida. Her sister would send instant grits from Florida for a variety of pasta that is apparently illegal there (Curse you, Ulysses Simpson Grant). I almost feel ashamed for bringing my wife into my addictions. I say almost because my wife loves grits as much as I do (bless her beautiful heart).

I now had the incident of the aforementioned package ripping behind me. I had made it through the security checkpoint in Atlanta and was now back in Rochester. I felt sort of like Johnny Depp in the movie “Blow”. I picked up my suitcase from the carousel and tried to think of something. I tried to think of my kids’ birthdays or something festive like that. I actually transcended myself to that place if you will. I tried to think about anything except what could happen to me if I get caught with the 47 ounces of instant ground hominy in my suitcase. I began to walk out of the airport. I was stopped by a government official with a badge. He was a Farina for Breakfast Investigator. I was surrounded by four other investigators. They had caught me dead to rights. I was busted. I looked at the investigator and asked “Parlay?”. The eyes of the investigators were wide with frustration. “We have to let him go” said the lead investigator. Another protested: “But he’s referencing the WRONG MOVIE!”. I walked away with my victory, my suitcase, and my grits. I thumbed my nose at the Anti-Grits government conspiracy. And I must confess, if it means I get to exercise my God given right to more variety of instant grits in my Western New York home, I’LL DO IT AGAIN!!

From Daddy’s Arms to the Commencement Stage: Part Two - The Psychological Sequel

I have been sharing my writing with friends, loved ones, and the world at large since 2008. During that time, I have shared the triumphs and traumas of being a husband and father. As a parent, I had great examples before me. My amazing parents reared three children to adulthood. They managed to do this without winding up smoking cigarettes and watching “Captain Kangaroo”.* This may be due to my parents’ tenacity. It may also be due to the fact that both of my parent’s stopped smoking in the mid-1960’s. I can remember looking at my dad and thinking he was 10 feet tall and bulletproof. I can only hope that my kids will look at me and think I am at least 5' 10" with mild allergies.

I have spoken about all of my four children at one time or another in my writing. On this occasion, I would like to shine the spotlight on my older daughter – Shayna Amarelle McAfee. I was in the delivery room when Shayna entered the world on October 6, 1989. I stood there in the delivery room as I held this beautiful, angelic, newborn baby girl in my arms. I could not help but notice two very distinct features. For one thing, she did not cry as she entered the world. Shayna came into the world sneezing. It wasn't just once or twice. Shayna sneezed over and over again. I nervously hoped this did not indicate she was allergic to her father. Secondly, I held Shayna for quite a bit following her delivery. Unfortunately, I could not tell you for the life of me what color her eyes were. For the entire time I held Shayna, she would not open her eyes. This would turn out to be the first day of many that Shayna would have amusement at my expense. Even as a newborn, Shayna new how to milk a good gag. For the next few days, I would go and visit Shayna after work. She never once had her eyes opened when I was present. I knew she HAD eyes as many people who visited (as well as her mother) told me how beautiful her eyes were. The day she came home from the hospital, I held Shayna in my arms again. Finally, I got to see her eyes. As we gazed at one another, I could feel that our connection was finally complete. It is a connection that I still feel almost 22 years later (as of this writing).

There are many things about Shayna that have changed over the years. I have seen Shayna’s hair go through more colors than Roy G. Biv. Her obsession with Belle and Gaston has segued to a fixation with Harley Quinn and the Joker. Other things have remained the same. She still enjoys reading the works of Edgar Allan Poe. Still to this day, she saunters across the room on her tiptoes. It’s as if she comes as close as humanly possible to walking on air. She still has the bouncy demeanor of a hyper-caffeinated kangaroo. When she was a child, she spoke of being a doctor. Her vision has shifted only slightly. As I write this, she is preparing to graduate with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology and a Bachelor of Science in Health Sciences with a concentration in Alcohol and Substance Abuse Program (try saying THAT five times fast).

Shayna, my beautiful daughter, I have tried so hard to find the words to express how happy I am with what you have accomplished and the woman you have become. Some may say that I am blessed with the gift of sesquipedalian loquacity. Others would just say that I use a lot of big words and I talk too much. In any case, when it came time for me to express my feelings, I was unable to find the best way to give the truest justice to my sentiment. Therefore, I turned to someone who is a great influence on my writing – Erma Bombeck. Erma Bombeck was a truly gifted humor writer whose children were grown while mine were still infants. On the subject of college graduation, she offers this musing: "Graduation day is tough for adults. They go to the ceremony as parents. They come home as contemporaries. After twenty-two years of child-raising, they are unemployed." I couldn't have said it better myself. In all my adult years, I have never been so happy to be “unemployed”. I guess you could now deem me as pater emeritus. That is to say, I am somewhat relieved of my duties but  I still hold some of the honor of the position. As you walk into the world, I no longer need to stand as closely as when you first took your tiptoe steps. But always remember that if you feel you may fall, or if you even just feel the need to lean, I am never too far away.

 

* I often throw references into my writing, often without explanation,  assuming that at least SOME people will get it. This is from a song called “Flowers on the Wall”. It was recorded by the Statler Brothers and written by the late Lew Dewitt. It’s a great and humorous song.

IPSBS (Invisible Passenger Side Braking System)

I can remember when my parents were teaching me how to drive. This process around the age of fifteen for most kids back then. When I say “back then”, I am referring to the early 1980’s. One of my friends reminded me that this was part of the Paleolithic Era when he and I attended Pangea High School. At any rate, this training process started to prepare a young Pangean teen to acquire his driver’s license at the age of sixteen. This also allowed parents a full year of therapeutic counseling to prepare them for the emotional transition of this great milestone of childhood. It also allowed parents to obtain a years worth of supplemental employment to financially prepare them for the rise in their auto insurance premiums.
At the time, we lived in a nice quiet suburban neighborhood on the south side of Savannah, Georgia. There were a lot of nice little side roads to go down with little to no traffic on the weekend. My mother worked for a bank in the area. There was an occasional perk to her job. We lived some distance from the bank where my mother worked. Due to this distance, she would occasionally be provided with a vehicle that the bank had recently repossessed. This usually happened for a weekend until the paperwork on the vehicle could be processed the following Monday.There is an important reason why I am given you this little snippet about my mother’s occupation. I had asked my mother if I could practice driving around the neighborhood one Saturday. I was expecting to use our family’s 1967 Ford Falcon. However, my brother had the use of that car. This meant that I got to have my first driving experience in a repossessed car. I was initially less than thrilled about this. This was until I realized that this same vehicle was a 1975 Cadillac Sedan De Ville. That’s right, folks. I got to drive around my neighborhood in a CADDY.
I sat in the Caddy while I waited for my Mom to get in the car. I decided use this time to work on the proper way to lean my arm on the back of the seat and complete my cool look. After all, it’s a Cadillac. You MUST lean. The best way to complete the look is to wear some cool sunglasses and let them hang down on your nose a bit. My mom got in the car. She started off by telling me to fix my sunglasses. She said she had no desire to ride with Marlon Brando. I asked if she was talking about the old dude in “Superman”. I knew who Marlon Brando was but I couldn’t resist taking a poke at my Mom’s age (who was younger than I am now). She then told me to put BOTH hands on the steering wheel and dispense with the lean. I tried to explain the need to look cool. She wouldn’t budge on the issue. She firmly replied: “You can look cool when it’s YOUR car. Until then, put your hands at 10 o’ clock and 2 o’ clock.” I asked her if that meant I had four hours to drive the car. “You know what, boy? I COULD just go back inside right about now.” I decided this was a good time to put my sense of humor aside.
I backed out of the driveway and drove down the side streets as my mother instructed me. Overall, things seem to be going well. My mother decided to up the ante a bit at this point. She directed me to take my main street out of our neighborhood. Check it out, people. I was driving down White Bluff Road in Savannah, Georgia. You couldn’t have gotten rid of the grin on my face with a belt sander. It was around this point that I discovered something about driving that I did not know previously. As we were moving down the road, my mother noticed a car backing out of the driveway into the street. My mother apparently did not think that I noticed this vehicle as quickly as she felt appropriate. My mother then very quickly pressed her right foot down to the floorboard. The car had been equipped with an invisible passenger side braking system. I knew that it worked because when she did this, I firmly and quickly pressed on the brake pedal on the driver’s side (producing a very audible and visible skid). This prompted a very brief exchange between me and Momma. “Shane, WHY did you slam on the brakes like that?” BECAUSE, you slammed on YOUR brakes, Momma. “Well, I didn’t think you saw that fella backing out.”  Momma, it’s a Ford pickup. Did you think I suddenly went blind? “Boy, if you keep talking to me like that, you’re gonna be blind for a couple of days.” At this point, the gentleman in the pickup drove by and gave my mother a sympathetic smile as he shook his head at me. At this point, my mother offered to take the wheel. When I say she offered, I mean she said “How about I drive now?” and got out of the passenger side before I could respond.
There would be other driving lessons over the months that followed. I would discover that there were other parts of the car to engage the passenger side braking system. Sometimes my mother would just use the floorboard. Other times, she would also put her hands on the dashboard or on the roof (or both). She even once used a unique braking system by using the floorboard, one hand on the dashboard, and the other hand over her mouth. I take pleasure in telling you all that a few short months later. I acquired my first drivers license at the age of sixteen. I couldn't help but notice that the instructor had BOTH of his feet pressed into the floorboard for the entire test.

The Wild Kingdom of Study

From the moment that I decided that I was going to advance by higher education and attend college again, I knew that I was going to face a concurrent task that would be the bane of my academic existence – homework. Due to the fact that, out of a family of six, five of us are attending college and the sixth is a high school senior (as of this writing), I occasionally have to relocate an area outside of the house to minimize interruption. So, with my laptop computer and text books in tow, I retreat to the great sanctuary of silent study – the library.

When I get to the library, I walk toward a sign that designates an area for me (and others like me) to do my studies. The library calls this the Quiet Study Area. I cannot help but be amused by the irony of a library that apparently needs to designate an area for quiet study. Since I have already had my cathartic rant about that particular subject (an essay entitled “I Can't Hear You (I'm in a Library)”), I will not belabor that issue any further. I find an empty table and begin setting things up. Once I get my laptop computer plugged in and get comfortable in my chair, I devote a few extra minutes to what I consider to be a brief but necessary amount of lollygagging. I talk to my wife for a few minutes online and do some internet surfing. After all, a marathon runner doesn’t just start a 5 mile sprint without doing some warm ups.

It was during this time that I began observing some of the other people using the quiet study area with me. There was one interesting commonality, we were all wearing corrective eyewear. This is understandable to me. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar wore goggles to play some serious basketball for the Los Angeles Lakers. It was clear that everyone in the room was preparing for some serious study (and I had already performed the proper warm up). I also noticed that the women in the room all had their hair pulled back. Quiet study is serious business where one should not be impeded by their tresses. I haven’t suffered such impedance in a long time. When my hair WAS long enough to have such an issue, I spent less time in libraries.

I also noticed some very distinct differences. One lady in the room appear somewhat matronly. She wore earrings that dangled like wind chimes to be strummed. I thought it better not to do so. This particular lady also had another distinction. She was the only one among us NOT using a computer. She was using (GASP) pen and paper. I have always admired people with legible handwriting. The last time I attempted writing anything other than my signature, I got three scholarships for pharmacy school. I also noticed another younger lady in the room. This young lady did not actually sit in her chair. She was perched upon her chair and seated more upon the heels of her feet. Her posture is almost feline in nature as if she is about to pounce upon whatever appears on her computer screen. Two more women arrive. Both, of course had their hair pulled back. However, instead of wearing eyeglasses they have sunglasses pulled atop their heads as a makeshift hair band. This is an interesting twist of the use of eye wear for function AND fashion. After all, they have no need for sunglasses in the library. Corey Hart wore his sunglasses at night but I am unsure if he wore them in the library. Should I ever meet Mr. Hart, I will be sure to ask him. It was shortly after this that two other ladies arrived (as I felt somewhat hormonally outnumbered). These two ladies were one adult and a girl about 12 years old. They are clearly rebelling against societal norms. Neither have eye wear. I did not verify the presence of contact lenses. For some reason, people are put off by that kind of behavior (once bitten, twice shy).  Also, both had their hair down. I must say that I was truly taken aback by such a brazen display of anarchism.

After all this observation, I decided that it was time to get down to business and crack open the textbooks. I took one last look around and said to myself: I have three homework assignments, I have three textbooks, a laptop computer, and I’m wearing bifocals. HIT IT!

Johnny Weissmuller, What Is Your Sleep Number?

I have addressed many things as well as the effects of those same things on me and/or my family. Such topics include (but are not limited to) the following: mall shopping, higher education, communicable diseases, and libraries. For the purpose of this writing, I’d like to focus on an issue that has become very important to my wife and me after 17 years of marriage – sleep.
Before your mind begins to wander (or wonder), let me be clear. I am not going to address the marital perspective of our sleeping quarters. After all, this is a family show. I am here to talk about the rapid-eye-moving, excessive-pillow-drooling, Metallica-stops-recording-their-new-album-because-your-snoring -is-too loud state of sleep. I am talking about that state of rest between the point where your head hits the pillow and the palm of your hand slaps the alarm clock with the force of a Hank Aaron homer. There are two entities that greatly assist my wife and/or me with getting a good nights sleep: a CPAP machine and a sleep number bed.
The CPAP machine, though a blessing to both of us, is primarily for my benefit. I have a condition that many people suffer call sleep apnea. To describe this as succinctly as possible, without the benefit of my CPAP machine, I will literally stop breathing (multiple times) during my sleep. This can result in many less than restful nights, extreme fatigue, and horrendous snoring that has threatened the structural integrity of the windows in my house. Needless to say, we LOVE having this machine in our lives. Mind you, the machine also requires me to be tethered by a nasal mask connecting me to the machine. This forces air into my airway while I sleep so that I don’t stop breathing. I am of the opinion that breathing while sleeping is good. I may look like an alien SCUBA diver but I’ll take breathing over vanity any day.
The sleep number bed, though a blessing to us both, is primarily for my wife due to a back injury she suffered some time ago. The mattress is essentially two long bladders of air (one for each side of the bed). We each have a hand controller that allows us to set the pressure for our side of the bed to a specific number (ranging from 0 – 100). We each have our own sweet spot, or sleep number, to have a comfortable night’s sleep. My wife sleeps comfortably with much less aggravation to her back injury. Needless to say, we LOVE having this bed in our lives.
However, having two different sleep numbers has proven to be problematic every now and again. My sleep number ranges from around 55 – 80. My wife’s sleep number is considerably lower. Part of the problem is my wife’s sense of humor is similar to my own. If I get out of bed and leave the room for more than five minutes, she inflates my bed to 100. This means that she gets to watch me come back into our room and plop myself into the equivalent of an eight foot long brick. She then giggles while I am now reaching for an ice pack. The other problem occurs when one of us leaves the bed while the other is sleeping. If I am out of bed and my wife rolls over toward my side, she ends up with her nose firmly pressed against a wall of air mattress. This gives her the sensation that can only be compare to those stuffed kittens you see on the window of a station wagon. On the other hand, if my wife is out of bed and I roll to her side, the end result is quite different. I fall into the deep chasm that is my wife’s side of the bed. Since I am tethered to my CPAP machine, I look something like Tarzan trying to pull himself out of quicksand. There are two key differences: a) since I have forced air blowing into my lungs, I will not suffocate and b) no one is likely to confuse me with Johnny Weissmuller.
I pull myself back up by my CPAP tubing back onto my side of the bed sweaty and hyperventilating (with forced air pouring into my lungs). My wife comes in shortly thereafter. She notices my perspiration and heavy breathing and asks me if I am feeling OK. I beat my chest and tell her the lord of the jungle is fine. She giggles at me with confused oblivion. She then rolls over and falls back asleep like a newborn child. Like I said, we LOVE having this bed in our lives.

Away With You, Sinus Squatters!

I have been having a rather rough couple of weeks. Sometime, during the past couple of weeks, some tiny gremlins took siege over my sinuses. These gremlins are too small to be seen with the naked eye. They tend to travel in packs of four and, in spite of their size, produce a collective weight of 35 lbs. Their only goal is to take residence in the sinuses for as long as possible and make you feel like you are carrying a bowling ball on your neck. I tried asking them nicely to leave. I rationally explained that they were MY sinuses and they did not belong there. It was really nothing personal. I just really dislike this extra weight on my head. They scoffed at my naive niceness. To add further insult, these sinus squatting gremlins invited their friends to make my eyes itchy and make my voice sound like a mouse in a library.

This, of course, leads to the true source of my irritation. My loving wife was kind enough to go to the store and pick up some sinus medicine for me. Mind you, she did this partly to help me feel better and partly because she had caught my cold. I eagerly opened the package hoping that relief would come soon. My hopes were very quickly dashed. It appears that the sinus squatting, eyeball itching, voice vanquishing gremlins are in cahoots with the makers of SnotAway. They start by using transparent plastic on one side of the packaging. This provides you with a view of the medicine – tiny little blue gel caps of hope. This only serves as part of the torture. On the opposite of this medicinal visual tease, the medicine is sealed with a layer of foil held onto the plastic by an adhesive. It is then topped with another of paper that is held to the foil seal by the same adhesive. Each dose (two gel caps each) is then separated by perforations. The torment continues further as one corner is pulled back ever so slightly.

First, it starts with the perforations. I do what any rational person would do. I do the bending back and forth of the perforations to make the individual doses easier to separate. This does not work because the adhesive (used to hold the paper and foil seals in place) gets between the perforations. If they has used this adhesive on the Titanic, I wouldn’t have had to sit through a three hour movie explaining why some old lady threw her necklace in the ocean. So, here I am. I am already having trouble breathing. I am wearing myself into exhaustion bending this thing back and forth. Finally, I get some scissors to cut the perforations apart. The problem is, the combined effects of my cold condition and my exhausting efforts to open this stupid medicine have made my eyes water. The blurred vision causes me to slice my index finger with the scissors. Now I am bleeding and I need a bandage. Unfortunately, the bandage is sealed between two strips of paper held together by the SAME ACCURSED ADHESIVE. I can actually hear the sinus squatting, eyeball itching, voice vanquishing gremlins giving each other high fives in my head. I find myself crying myself to sleep in a fetal position.

Three hours later, I awoke. I tried to speak but the gremlins still had hold of my voice. The still-sealed, unused bandage is stuck to my hand from the dried blood. The scissors lay at my side along with the the still-sealed, unused medication. My wife takes one look at me and says: “Honey, I bought you some medicine. You won’t get any better unless you take it. Honey, why are you crying?”